Monday, November 30, 2009

click photo to enlargeToday's photograph could be many things. It could show blocks of ice on a frozen planet captured by a passing spacecraft's camera. It might show shards of a broken material - say, amber, plastic or safety glass. Or it could be a close-up image, taken through a microscope, of tiny debris littering a surface that, to the naked eye, looks clean. In fact, as the photograph's title reveals, it shows raindrops clinging to the vertical surface of a door - my garage door to be precise.

A while ago, around breakfast time, I went into the garage to get something, and when, mission accomplished, I opened the door and stepped out, the low, slanting light of the sun caught the raindrops causing them to glisten and throw shadows across the painted surface. This immediately caught my eye and I went for the LX3 to get a shot of the subject. As I set the camera to macro and framed a section of the door I reflected that the resulting image wasn't as interesting as it first appeared; but I pressed the shutter nonetheless.

However, when I brought the image up on my computer screen the photograph looked more interesting than I imagined. Not because it's a shot with great composition, colour, etc, but because I was very surprised by the shape of the raindrops. I didn't expect them to be all the same, nor did I expect them to be regularly shaped - I've shot enough raindrops to know that they vary in those respects. What surprised me was the smooth angularity of so many of them. They looked more like fragments of a solid material than liquid water. The temperature was around 10 Celsius, so there was no question of them being on the verge of freezing. What I conclude from this image is that, as far as raindrops go, I've been guilty of looking and not seeing, and that my camera, once again, has opened my eyes to the truth about a small part of our world.

Why "Looking and seeing No. 2"? Because I've used the title once before, here.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

click photo to enlargeA while ago I was talking with some friends about the sort future that was held out to mankind in the 1950s. We could all remember looking forward to shorter working hours, greater leisure, longer life-spans, limitless energy, automation, flying cars, interplanetary settlement and travel, the conquest of disease, and consumer goods and food a-plenty. Some of this future has certainly come true for those of us fortunate to live in the "developed" world, but much has not, and the time of plenty that was foretold is beginning to increasingly look like a transient period.

But memories are selective. Because what my friends and I had all forgotten - or perhaps repressed - was the other 1950s vision of the future that was no future at all. During that decade the possibility - likelihood even - of nuclear war was an ever-present subject in the newspapers, on television and in the cinema: the idea that the nuclear-armed nations of the world would destroy not only each other, but the rest of mankind, kept re-appearing. Novelists took up the theme too. Only after I'd given the title to today's photograph did I realise that it is also the title of the bleakest "post apocalypse" novel of the 1950s. "On the Beach" was written by the British-born Australian writer, Nevil Shute, in 1957. It imagines a group of people in Australia waiting for the radiation of the nuclear wars of the northern hemisphere to be carried on the wind to where they are waiting. When I read it in the late 1960s it seemed a grim, but not impossible, vision of the future. In the 1950s it must have appeared all too plausible.

So, if you want an antidote to the unrelenting Christmas jollities that will soon descend upon us you could do worse than dig out a copy of this novel, or find a DVD of the film. However, if the prospect of time spent reading or watching is just too much for your busy schedule Wikipedia can oblige with a helpful synopsis. Happy reading! :-)

The photograph above dates from early 2007, before my re-location to Lincolnshire. It shows the beach at Cleveleys, Lancashire, with Blackpool in the distance. I was reviewing my shots from that year recently, and I thought this was one worth posting for the brave dog walkers, the litter of gulls, and the nice way the spray and haze gives a blue cast to the scene and makes the distant Tower and cliffs almost disappear.

Friday, November 27, 2009

click photo to enlargeLike a lot of photographers I find myself drawn to spiral staircases. The helix shape (they're not spirals as mathematicians understand the term) lends itself to interesting compositions from above, below and from the side. Add a dark shadow and you can have a perplexing image, especially if you convert it to black and white.

Over recent years I've taken several photographs of spiral staircases, and in no instance (I think) have I produced an image that I haven't posted on the blog. That fact says something about either the visual interest of this subject or, perhaps, my lack of imagination. I'm currently "otherwise engaged" on a tiling project which gives me rather less time than usual for photography, so here's yet another spiral staircase. This one was on a hotel near the Thames in Rotherhithe, London. In fact, my wife pointed it out to me - she knows my proclivities better than anyone!

For anyone who is interested, here are the links to my other photographs of spiral staircases.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

click photo to enlargeThe walk from the main streets of Thaxted, Essex - Town Street and Watling Street - up Stony Lane, through the churchyard gates and along the gravel track to the west tower of the medieval church is as architecturally eventful as any in England.

Leaving the shopping streets you immediately pass the Guildhall of 1450, a lime-washed, three-storey, timber-framed building that includes an eighteenth century "lock-up" (gaol). Across from it are three, three-storeyed houses that are jettied at each floor, buildings that date from the early 1400s and still show walls, timber and windows of that period, as well as sixteenth and seventeenth century additions. Behind the Guildhall is an even older house that was built in the early 1300s, heavily modified in the 1800s, and given the local, moulded plaster "pargetting" in the twentieth century. Other houses up the lane date from subsequent centuries, and nestle into their location with great charm. The church of St John the Baptist, with its tall spire, stands in its graveyard at the highpoint of the town. Its earliest parts date from around 1340, but these were remodelled in the 1400s and 1500s. Further work was added in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, including the rebuilding of the spire which was blown down in 1814. The exterior of the church is lavishly decorated and it makes a fine landmark that competes with the nearby windmill.

In the churchyard are two further beautiful old buildings. The single-storey thatched building known as "The Chantry" is timber-framed, plastered and painted dark pink. It was formerly almshouses and dates from the 1600s. Next to it is a row of early eighteenth century almshouses, also timber-framed and plastered, but with tiled roofs and this time painted cream. These were restored in the nineteenth century when the decorative bargeboards as well as the pointed window and the rectangular window, each with the hoodmoulds, were added. When I stood and looked at this interesting pair of buildings a couple of weeks ago, the fog that had been a nuisance all morning helpfully lifted sufficiently for me see the distant windmill between them, and I quickly took this shot. It's a pity that the more elaborate fronts of neither building can be seen. But, if I had included either, then the windmill wouldn't have been so conveniently placed!

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

click photo to enlargeIt is not unusual to hear a member of a church congregation complain about the hardness of the pews, benches or chairs that they must sit on. Perhaps they should spare a thought for the early medieval congregations. Like the clergy of that time, they had to stand throughout the services, though the old or infirm could use the stone ledges that are sometimes found projecting from the nave wall (a practice that is supposed to be behind the saying, "the weak go to the wall"). During these centuries our parish churches were also public meeting places for secular events, and only when these began to be conducted in pupose-made buildings could the church authorities countenance the provision of seating for services.

It is not unusual to see the remains of seating that dates from the fifteenth century and later in our churches. The Victorians rescued and restored a great deal of it, especially in East Anglia and the West Country. The oldest benches in England, however, are probably those at Dunsfold in Surrey, dating from the early 1300s. This early date is unusual: most remaining examples date from after 1450 when increasing prosperity seems to have led to the installation of seating in many churches. The benches from this period are often made of oak and are fairly rudimentary. However, they were frequently enlivened by decorative carving on the bench ends that face the aisles.

The examples above, at St Peter & St Paul, Osbournby, Lincolnshire, are a particularly noteworthy set. They have the characteristic pointed shape with a foliate or figure "poppy head" (a finial whose name derives from the French poupee meaning a bunch of hemp or flax). The lower parts are generally filled with patterns similar to Gothic window tracery, whilst the upper parts, beneath the pointed arch, have scenes from the Bible, from saints' lives, the bestiaries and folk tales. At Osbournby these include the Crucifixion, the fox preaching to the geese and (see above) Adam and Eve, and St George and the Dragon. The aim of the figurative illustrations was much the same as the pictures in stained glass: to place before a largely illiterate population important episodes from the Bible alongside a series of secular, "improving" tales. The charming naivety that shines through the bumps and knocks of the centuries is because these were not, in the main, the work of renowned metropolitan wood carvers, but were fashioned by local individuals.

I took a few photographs of these ancient seats aiming to show them in context and also to highlight some of the figure carving. For the shot down the nave I got down low to keep the bench ends vertical and give them prominence in the image. The two details were pasted onto a white background, and the surroundings given the digital equivalent of "burning" to reduce the impact of what was behind.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

click photo to enlargeYesterday I speculated whether reading about the influence of oriental art on western art, design and photography had influenced how I conceived my image. In fact, whether it is acknowledged or not, fine art painting is always a major influence on photography. In the early days of Fox Talbot, Daguerre and the other pioneers of the upstart medium, photographic portraits, landscapes and still-lifes, in particular, drew strongly on the precedents in paint. I suppose, in a way, it was like the designs of the first railway carriages: they looked like stagecoaches because it was difficult, initially, to see beyond what was the tried and tested vehicle. But as the railways (and photography) developed, so too did the forms that they used, and the influence passed back and forth between the two forms of representation. In his fascinating book, "Art and Photography", Aaron Scharf shows how painters as disparate as Ingres, Etty, Manet, Delacroix and Courbet used photographs as sources for their finished paintings. He then goes on to describe how painters and sculptors such as Duchamp and Boccioni developed their images and forms with reference to multiple photographs or photographs with blur.

When I compose a semi-abstract image I don't do it with conscious reference to any painting that I've seen. However, I am aware that the aesthetic choices that are made during that process must, in some way, be influenced by what I've seen and read: we are after all, the sum of our life experiences. Today's image doesn't, for me, have any oriental overtones. However, if it was a canvas I'd say it has something of the 1930s about it. Not the 1930s of the International Style, Moderne and the illustrations of Tom Purvis that seemed to be at work in my photograph here, but rather the colours, shapes and lines that Kandinsky brought to painting in that decade.

I make no claims that this photograph is art, of course. It is simply a composition that pleases me for the colours and shapes of the water lily leaves combined with the lines of the iris stems that have fallen into the water. And, whilst it is a straightforward representation of this section of the pond I don't see it as a description of the plants at this time of year, so much as a semi-abstract composition that makes use of them.

Monday, November 23, 2009

click photo to enlarge
I've looked at my pond several times over recent weeks thinking that it contains an image. I've pointed my camera at it but not pressed the shutter. I've also pointed my camera at it, pressed the shutter then quickly erased the resulting images. But, when I looked at it for what I thought would be the final time this year - as a potential source of photographs, that is - I saw a picture in it that I wanted. That image is today's offering.

Sometimes, as I've mentioned before in this blog, I find myself looking too hard for images. At such times I seem to forget the first principles of composition, especially the need to make images that concentrate on a few essentials i.e. simplify, simplify, simplify. But, if you look, then look again, then look once more, the pictures that couldn't be seen initially can suddenly emerge.

I think what triggered today's image was some reading I've being doing recently about how oriental art, particularly that of Japan, influenced western art, design and photography. A short blog post cannot hope to do justice to the impact of "blue and white ware" ceramic designs, Hokusai, Hiroshige or how Degas' composition was probably influenced by the exhibits in the Japanese pavilion at the Paris Exposition Universelle of 1867. But you have only to look at the the successive borrowings that stretch from the "Chinoiserie" of the eighteenth century through to, say, Whistler's "nocturnes" to see how such things as stylized geometrical patterns, two dimensional decorative flowers and foliage, and "suggested" scenes that draw their strength from colour and tangible brush strokes, became embedded in western art. Another feature that the west took from oriental artists was simplicity: the idea that small things, parts of things - flowers, birds, people, leaves - set against plain or simple backgrounds, sometimes as silhouettes, often as points of rich colour, could be worthy subjects in themselves. Maybe the reading and the pictures I'd been studying resulted in my image of the dying leaves being the way it is. But then again, maybe not!

Sunday, November 22, 2009

click photo to enlargeMy oldest son offered me an old computer recently, and, because it was of more recent vintage than my existing old computer I accepted it. The other day I transferred the hard drives from my "old" old computer into my "new" old computer and decided I'd wipe them clean and install Ubuntu 9.10, a very recent version of this Linux distribution that is reported to be significantly more user friendly than previous incarnations. In recent years I've tried out a few Linux Live CDs (Slax, Knoppix and Ubuntu) and have been very impressed that you can have a fully functioning operating system with a working internet connection running off a CD in your disk drive. This happens, incidentally without interfering at all with your existing Windows installation, and runs reasonably quickly, though isn't as fast as it would be coming off the hard drive. I've used a Linux Live CD in the past to look at a hard drive when Windows has stopped working, valuing the facility to recover files from such a disk - very useful, and the reason I became interested in them in the first place.

However, though there is much to like about Linux - it's free, open source, constantly being improved, less susceptible to viruses, etc - it is sufficiently different to Windows that new skills need to be learnt to feel compfortable with it. Nonetheless, I like the philosophy behind it, so I thought I'd take the plunge. And there my problems began. It took me a while to figure out how to prepare the hard disk for Linux, but I eventually got there. However, try as I might I could not get Ubuntu 9.10 to install. It hung at the Partitioning stage. I downloaded and burned to CD every variation of the distribution - 32 bit, AMD64, Alternate, etc - but the same problem arose. After a couple of days tinkering and researching I found other people with AMD64 processors and VIA chipsets with the same problems, so I guess that's where my difficulties lay. Fortunately, when I looked out a 64 bit version of Ubuntu that I'd downloaded in June it went on to the hard drive very straightforwardly. So, I now have my Linux installation, though not the precise one I wanted. I'm going to dip it into it regularly and do some photographic processing using Linux open source software to see if I find it a realistic alternative to Windows and its software.

When I was tidying up the stack of Ubuntu and other CDs on my desk the other evening they slipped over. The solitary reading lamp and the glow from my monitor produced rainbow-like patterns on each glossy surface. Seeing the discs shining under the lights reminded me that I'd produced an image that featured CDs a couple of years ago. I reached for the LX3 that was nearby, switched to macro mode and took my second shot of this subject that is shown above. As I did so I reflected that a hand-held photograph of the surprisingly good quality that the little camera produced in these circumstances would have been unthinkable only ten years ago.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

click photos to enlargeI can't pass Westminster Bridge in London without thinking of Wordsworth's sonnet. "Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3rd, 1802" is a poem in which the great Romantic applies the language and evokes the emotions more usually associated with his works about nature, particularly his beloved Lake District. In this piece Wordsworth describes the view from the bridge in the morning, and he speaks favourably of all that London has to offer the eye, the spirit and the mind. It is not what lovers of Wordsworth would expect to fall from his pen.

William Blake's vision of the city in his poem, "London", as a place of dirt and despair might seem to be more in tune with Wordsworth's outlook, but the Romantic's eye spots the beauty that exists alongside the grime where Blake sees only horrors. What would both men have made of the city today I wonder? People have sometimes asked me if I could live in London, and my answer has always been the same - yes, I'd love to for three or four years, but not for a lifetime. I think that in that period I could take from it in one long draught that which I currently experience in sips.

I recently spent some time around Westminster Bridge and today post a couple of the shots I took. The first shows the view upstream, and is a scene that is not as frequently photographed as the one downstream. Out of view, to the right are the Houses of Parliament. I took the shot for the foreground of the bridge parapet with the people (especially the tourist in red taking a photograph) against the background buildings and clouds. Millbank Tower on the right is an abomination that should never have been built, and the flats with the bizarre tops in the centre look better only when you're very close to them, so it was the colours and light as much as the details that appealed to me about this one.

The second shot shows the Houses of Parliament (properly called the Palace of Westminster) with the low sun about to set behind its prickly outline. There's no denying the distinctiveness of Barry and Pugin's Gothicised spires and towers, and the romantic way they pierce the sky. In this light Westminster Bridge can just be discerned, and I was grateful for the passing bus and gull on the left which helped the compositional balance. Though it is the opposite end of the day to when Wordsworth was on the bridge, and the Parliament buildings weren't yet built, this view offers the eye something of the qualities that must have led him to sing the city's praises.

Friday, November 20, 2009

click photo to enlargeAll through my adult life I've used single lens reflex cameras (film then digital) alongside a pocketable compact camera (also film, then digital). At times I've concentrated on the smaller camera and given the heavier and bulkier SLR a break. There are those who can see no advantage in using a camera that offers less detailed output and is more restrictive in the subjects that it can deal with. However, the discipline of composing images with a restricted focal length lens fixed to a device that can accompany you with ease everywhere that you go is quite liberating; something that takes you back to the earlier days of photography, and makes you really think about your subjects and, especially, your compositions. And, for those who can't envisage life without a wide-range zoom lens, don't forget that a single focal length lens will zoom: all you have to do is walk forwards or backwards!

I've been using the Lumx LX3 more in recent months, and in so doing I've experienced something of the pleasure that I used to get from using a rangefinder film camera - in my case the Ricoh 500RF. That particular model had a fixed 40mm lens whilst the LX3 has a relatively short zoom of 24mm-60mm (35mm equiv.). However, I find the handling and the subjects that suit the camera are not too dissimilar. On my recent visit to London I tried the LX3 with a subject I've photographed with the E510 and posted last year - the Millennium Footbridge that crosses the Thames between Tate Modern and St Paul's Cathedral. I passed this location a little later in the day this year, so there was less light. Nonetheless, I thought I'd try the view with a hand-held shot to see how the little camera performed. There's no doubt that a big SLR with a bigger sensor, wider lens and consequent better high ISO capabilities would have secured a sharper, less noisy shot. But, such a camera might have been languishing at home whereas this one is always in my pocket! All things considered I think the LX3 produced quite a good result.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

click photos to enlargeThe United Kingdom doesn't offer much in the way of Manhattan-style clusters of modern towers: the closest we get is Canary Wharf in London's Docklands. Over the past several years, on my regular visits to the capital, I've watched as it has expanded around the hub of One Canada Square (the tallest block with the pyramidal top). New towers have sprung up, riverside flats have multiplied, and an underground shopping centre has filled with ever more stores. About 25,000 people worked there in 1999. This had risen to 65,000 by 2005, and the aim is to reach about 90,000.

Canary Wharf was initially denigrated by the architectural profession and by those with an interest in our built environment. I was lukewarm too. But, like those early critics, I've warmed to the place as it has expanded. It's not just that it offers something unique in Britain, it's also that towers work best in clusters, and what looks anaemic when there's only two or three acquires force when there's ten, a dozen or more. During my recent trip to London I enjoyed a walk through the gleaming giants, appreciating the qualities of the best examples such as Cesar Pelli's original and still tallest tower, and recognising the contribution to the whole made by the less distinguished buildings.

The photograph above that was taken during the early afternoon was a quick shot as I walked along the south bank of the Thames to catch the ferry across. A deep blue sky, fluffy clouds, and crisp buildings made it an appealing vista. Moreover, the fact that much of this financial district was in cloud appealed to my liking for metaphor! The evening shot was taken from near the Royal Obseravtory in Greenwich Park. In the foreground is the white rectangular block of Inigo Jones' Queen's House (1616-1635), beyond that are the cupolas of Sir Christopher Wren's Royal Naval Hospital (1664, 1696-1702), then theThames can be glimpsed before we see the towers of Canary Wharf glowing in the last of the sun.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

click photo to enlargeI have said elsewhere in this blog that I think I could have been a futurologist. It's a job with little responsibility - I mean, honestly, how many people really believe your predictions? Moreover, you know for a fact that much of what you foresee will never come to pass, so failure in your job is a given. However, it would definitely be great fun (for a while at least) to get up each morning and sit at your desk trying to discern trends; extrapolate the present into the future; and make inspired (or otherwise) guesses about things that will come to be that don't yet exist, even as a figment of someone's imagination.

This thought went through my mind as I walked down the London Underground pedestrian tunnel shown in today's photograph. Though I've travelled on gleaming, stainless steel escalators and moving "walkways", none of them said "future" to me in the way this tunnel did. Perhaps it's because it looks like a glimpse of the future as dreamed up in the 1960s. The concealed lighting, muted colours (only the blue handrail and matching blue flecks on the wall enlivened the whites, greys and earth tones), circle segments and converging lines could be a set on the 1968 Arthur C. Clarke/Stanley Kubrick film 2001: A Space Odyssey.

As we used the tunnel to move from one section of the network to another I paused a moment, letting my companions continue ahead to provide some mid-ground interest, set the LX3 to its widest angle (24mm at 35mm equiv.), and took this shot. The original colour version of the image isn't especially colourful, but when I looked at it in black and white I liked not only the way it emphasised the converging lines but also the "looking at the future from the past" feel described above.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

click photo to enlargeThe day I took this photograph - 8th November - Green Park in London belied its name: "Brown Park" would have been more apposite. Each year I am taken aback by the lateness of the date that trees completely lose their leaves. You'd think that at my age I'd have it hard-wired into me. But no, I still find myself taking "autumn shots" when I expect it to look like winter.

The micro-climate of a metropolitan city like London is partly responsible for trees keeping their leaves longer than in the open country. The southerly latitude, relative to the rest of the UK, is another factor. When I dropped into the city from Lincolnshire it was immediately obvious that London's trees were more verdant. Today I could see that most of the deciduous trees in my garden and around my house have lost most of their leaves - the willows excepted. But, when I walked through the churchyard one of the beeches still had a low skirt of golden leaves, and the odd cherry was still resolutely clinging on to fragments of its deep orange covering. We've had the first of the autumn gales, and more are expected later this week. Perhaps after they have blown themselves out I'll find myself photographing the skeletons of trees that I expect in the second half of November.

Monday, November 16, 2009

click photo to enlargeThe steps that have been taken in recent years to reduce the amount of rubbish that we throw away, and to recycle much of that which is collected, is both laudable and necessary. We owe it to ourselves, the planet and our descendants to do more in this regard. However, the collection and sorting of refuse has created an unintended problem: the armies of unsightly "wheely bins" that clutter our towns, cities and villages. Many buildings are sufficiently adaptable to manage them discreetly. But, terraced houses that were not built with such things in mind are now often disfigured by green, blue, black, grey and brown bins that are sometimes permanently parked in front of them. And everywhere experiences at least one day a week of disagreeable clutter when they are placed on the pavement or the edge of properties for emptying by the refuse disposal workers. They are not objects that in any way enhance the appearance of the streets of our country.

Last week I was looking at some decorative scaffold sheeting in South Kensington, London. A building that was being renovated had been surrounded by a light grey (nylon?) material on which were outlines of chimneys, roofs, windows etc. among which were details such as cats, vases of flowers, birds and so on. The material had been carefully fixed so that it was tautly drawn around the structure. It did its work of hiding and protecting the work that was taking place behind admirably, but also offered something of interest and fun to the streetscape. So much better, I thought, than projecting scaffolding poles and flapping sheets of shiny plastic. Why, I mused, couldn't that sort of thinking be applied to the unsightly wheely bins? Surely with a concerted effort we could make them less visible.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

click photo to enlargeWhen I tell people that I'm interested in church architecture there is an asumption in the minds of many that I abhor modern architecture. Nothing could be futher from the truth. In fact I'm genuinely puzzled why the one is thought to be incompatible with the other. Maybe it's because people see the architecture of churches as essentially decorative, and modern architecture as primarily functional. However, that too is a misreading of what is actually the case: Gothic buildings are wonderful examples of form following function (with added ornament), a point I made in this earlier post, and much modern building is functional, though increasingly the external appearance is important.

Today's photograph shows the reflection of another building's windows in the windows of a tower at Canary Wharf, London. Seen in its totality this building isn't anything special. It has an overall grid of glazing divided by black metal bars, brown vertical panels that accent edges and set-backs, and pediment-like structures at the top - a small version, if you will, of Mies van der Rohe meets Philip Johnson. Any aesthetic force that the building has comes from its overall shape and from the way it reflects its surroundings. Since the advent of reflective glass in curtain walls this device has been deployed with varying degrees of success across the world, to the point where it has now become a cliche. As I photographed this building I wondered if its architect had intended the decorative feature that caught my eye: that is to say, the way the glass (presumably under tension) had distorted what it was reflecting. I'd guess not. Yet, from my point of view this was not only the structure's most attractive feature, it was also the one that differentiated it from its neighbours - a sort of Mondrian meets Cy Twombly, if you will! I composed my image with only two dimensions in mind, and tried to achieve asymmetrical balance across the frame.

Friday, November 13, 2009

click photo to enlargeOne of my early blog posts briefly discussed the ethics of removing, adding or changing objects within photographs - the practice that has become known as "Photoshopping". This issue is something I've thought about quite a bit in recent years, usually when I've been looking at newspaper images or photographs that have been posted online.

Photographs have been manipulated in one way or another since the advent of the medium, and many take exception to criticism of the practice, asking what the difference is between increasing the contrast of an image and adding a more photogenic sky. I come to this question from the point of view of an amateur who creates photographs that show the world as I find it and as I create it. So, I think that if I'm photographing a landscape and there are telephone wires or parked cars in places I'd rather there weren't, then they stay. But, if I'm photographing a still life I will arrange everything just as I want it. The point where I become a little inconsistent is where I adjust tonality, contrast, saturation, etc. When I do that I've certainly changed how the camera captures the world. My defence is that there is a long tradition of doing this, and it is significantly less manipulative than removing or adding things.

Today's photograph was the prompt for that reflection. It shows large leaves from a London Plane tree on some steps by the River Thames. I selected this particular group because it made quite a good composition against the straight lines and shadows of the concrete. However, as I framed my shot the thought went through my head that I could move the leaves slightly, or find some more colourful examples, or turn over those that were upside down, and in so doing contrive a "better" image. But I didn't. That seemed like "Photoshopping by hand" and if I presented the photograph as an image based on a found circumstance, then it was deceitful. If I'd been photographing these for, say, a commercial advertisement I'd have no qualms about re-arranging the leaves because there is little expectation on the viewer's part that what is seen in an advert is real. But, photographing them with the purpose I had in mind it seemed wrong. I'm sure there are those who agree with me, and I'm equally sure that many think I'm both inconsistent and mad. What do you think?

Thursday, November 12, 2009

click photograph to enlargeWhen I am made supreme leader and rule as the benign dictator of UK plc I will pass an edict. This will say that all celebrations of events that are linked to a single date must happen on that specific date and at no other time. There will be those who will eulogise my wisdom and perspicacity (mainly the over 50s and pet lovers) and there will be others who will condemn me as a reactionary, careless of the needs of children, families and workers, who tramples freedom to secure his own narrow interest. To the former I will smile, wave and accept their kind words and enlightened attitude: the latter will be reminded that they live in a dictatorship which is currently benign but could become a little more traditional if they don't quieten down!

And now back to our normal programming! My flight of fancy above is prompted by this year's Guy Fawkes Night celebrations. This annual event recalls the downfall of the Gunpowder Plot of 5th November 1605, in which conspirators (including Guy Fawkes) were thwarted in their attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament. This year 5th November fell on a Thursday. On that night some people had the traditional bonfires and fireworks. However, others waited until Friday 6th November to do this, presumably because the following day was a Saturday and (for many) not a working day. But, many had decided that Saturday 7th was an even better day, and so there was a third evening of whizzes, bangs and flashes, accompanied by the smell of bonfires in the night air. Why does it matter if the event is spread over three days? Well, in so doing it becomes a little less of a celebration of a specific date. Then there's the extension of the din of fireworks over a longer period. And finally nervous pets have three nights of cowering whilst the explosions echo around the streets, rather than just the one. I recognise I'm probably in a minority on this one, but this stretching of festivities over a couple of nights is something I've known happen at New Year too.

Today's photograph was taken on SATURDAY 7TH NOVEMBER at the fireworks display on Blackheath, at Greenwich in London. We went there at the suggestion of my son. The last time I took a photograph of fireworks it featured him and his younger brother making sparkler patterns, and was taken with the OM1n. This image is from the LX3, which once again did a fair job in difficult circumstances. I was quite pleased with my composition here. I decided to include the tree, street lights and the silhouette of a near onlooker at the bottom left to balance the aerial bursts of the fireworks that I put on the right. It seemed a reasonable device to get away from the usual shot with a central focus of interest.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

click photo to enlargeSomewhere in the top ten photographs that are taken by visitors to London, sitting alongside the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, the London Eye, Tower Bridge, a "bobby", and a red double-decker bus is one of the Household Cavalry outside the barracks at Whitehall. There are always at least two soldiers in ceremonial dress there, one on foot and the other mounted: sometimes there are more. In summer they display their metal breastplates and a lighter uniform, whilst winter brings the greatcoats. Passing through that area the other day I took my turn with the tourists thronging the guardsmen and got this photograph. It shows a member of the Life Guards, one of the two Household Cavalry regiments who act as the Queen's bodyguards, and (with the Blues & Royals) are the senior regiments of the British Army, their origins dating back to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Today the soldiers of this corps provide the army with three squadrons, one for mounted ceremonial duties, and two reconnaissance squadrons using Scimitar, Panther and Jackal armoured vehicles.

I've often thought that the ceremonial duties of such regiments must be a welcome break from the hazards of Iraq or Afghanistan. And yet, as I watched person after person standing next to the guardsmen to have their photographs taken, and child after child being lifted by their parents to pat the nose of the uncomplaining horse, it occurred to me that it requires training of a different sort (for man and beast!) to impassively endure the non-stop attention of the visiting hordes. And, with that thought in mind, I quickly composed my shot - at a distance - and departed.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

click photo to enlargeA few days in London, and particularly an evening spent in Greenwich, had me thinking about an issue that I've dwelt on before - how many urban locations are still to be found where you can experience something (if only a little) of what our cities were like a hundred or a hundred and fifty years ago? The specific prompt for this rumination was Turnpin Lane, near the market, at dusk. The hurly-burly of the shoppers and stallholders was filling the air with the sounds and smells of people and food. Nearby the spicy tang of mulled wine being poured for my companions wafted by, and down the lane a shopper strode off into the night, carrier bag in hand, his well-wrapped body a silhouette against the glow from a street light and shop windows. Perhaps it was the narrowness of the lane, the hanging signs, the bow and sash windows and Victorian buildings, or maybe the shiny cobbles and drain, but the the scene looked quite Dickensian. So, I quickly pointed my pocket camera (the LX3) before the figure had departed and captured this image.

Many years ago I lived in Kingston upon Hull. At that time - the 1970s and early 1980s - the old High Street hadn't received its big "makeover". It still had wooden "setts" paving the roadway, empty warehouses, small pubs, merchants' houses and an air of time having passed it by. Vistas such as the one above were plentiful, and the sinuous curves of the street as it paralleled the nearby River Hull gave many opportunities for interesting compositions. The Lincolnshire town of Stamford has small corners and sections of streets that, if you airbrush away the cars and TV aerials, look much as they did one hundred or two hundred years ago. Fortunately many towns and cities have civic societies and enlightened planning authorities that give what protection legislation and public opinion can to such places. But, not everywhere is so lucky. Then it is up to concerned individuals to do what they can to preserve and protect these streetscapes that give us a glimpse into our past.

My shot was taken at 800 ISO, a level that pushes the boundaries of what a small sensor camera can reasonably achieve. Nonetheless, I was quite pleased with with its handling of this difficult scene, and can readily accept the noise that appears in a few places.

Monday, November 09, 2009

click photo to enlargeI'm currently debating whether or not to tile the floors of a couple of our downstairs rooms. I've laid floor tiles in the past and found it a relatively straightforward task: the hardest part, I recall, was deciding which tiles to buy! On that occasion I settled on some terracotta coloured quarry tiles. They were of a type that had been manufactured for more than a century, weren't especially fashionable, but were durable and looked good. Those were all qualities that appealed to me because I sometimes get quite exercised by the modern habit of furnishing with highly durable materials capable of lasting a couple of centuries which are then discarded in less than ten years because they have become unfashionable.

I've recently taken a couple of photographs of some tiles in two very different locations, and I thought I'd post them today. One image is a detail of a round outdoor table at a park cafe. Here the tiles - blue squares and triangles - were arranged by hand in concentric circles. The tables have the potential to last quite a few years, and the rain shouldn't be too much of a problem for the tiles or grout. But I have a feeling that I won't see them if I go for a cup of coffee five years from now. They'll probably stand the knocks that the public give them, but not the vagaries of fashion. I took the photograph for the bold shapes, strong contrast, and the way the reflected colours of the nearby building enlivened the surface.

The second image shows a detail of the tilework on the chancel walls of the church of St Mary at Sutterton, Lincolnshire. Much of this building dates from the twelfth to the fourteenth century. However, these tiles are High Victorian i.e. from about 1880. They are unusual for that period because each tile is a single shade, with none of the decorative details or impressed shapes that were favoured at the time, and because the force of the design comes solely from the arrangement of the limited number of colours. I can imagine that many would see these tiles as inappropriate in this setting - perhaps more suited to a municipal baths - but I like them a lot. The colour is quite rich, but the simple, repetitive design doesn't overpower the focus that is rightly on the altar. They've been there for 130 years or so, and there's no reason why they shouldn't double or triple that and still look as good as they do today.

Saturday, November 07, 2009

click photo to enlargeToday's photograph title isn't a tongue twister designed to catch anyone out, but is a factual description of the building shown. South Lincolnshire has long had industries making products that use the feathers from poultry rearing, and this tradition continues today. This Boston factory was established in 1877, the date displayed at the top of the building. It advertises its connection with the manufacture of pillows and down bedding by the large stucco swan that looks down from on high. The company that erected the factory was taken over by Edward Fogarty in 1901 and Fogarty's went on to establish itself as pre-eminent in the field. Today the company has branched out into man-made fillings, and this building has been converted into flats, but the tradition of bedding manufacture continues in the Boston area.

The change of use from factory to residential premises happened with little change to the main elevation of the building because it has Grade II Listed Building status. So, the three storeys of red brick with stucco pilasters and arched windows remain, as do the decorative cornice and panelled parapet. The central and flanking doorways have been modified for its current use, but the twisted iron half-column mullions on the windows are untouched along with the heavy, pierced guard-rail above the main entrance. The piece-de-resistance of this factory, and the feature that makes it stand out from other industrial premises of this period is, however, the big swan, a symbol of the purity and warmth of the products that the factory produced.

I'd have liked to moved back a little more for my shot so that the couple of feet missing from each side of the building were included, but doing so brought in foreground clutter, and without extra height I couldn't keep it out. If I'd been carrying the Olympus with the 11-22mm lens I'd maybe have got it, but I only had the maximum of 24mm (35mm equiv.) of the LX3. However, I did notice a couple of people passing, so, realising that they'd bring scale to the shot, I waited until they were silhouetted by the central door and then pressed the shutter.

Friday, November 06, 2009

click photo to enlargeI suppose, in a way, I was an early adopter of new technology. I had a home computer in the early 1980s when they became affordable, and I haven't been without one since. Similarly, I had broadband relatively early, and remember being told by an engineer that our house was one of only four in the neighbourhood who had a high-speed connection (as 1MB then was). On the whole I've valued the way a computer and an internet connection has enriched my life. However, as the scope of the offerings and possibilities of the internet have widened, I've become selective, adopting some innovations and rejecting others. Email, digital photography, blogging, online commerce and finance I've embraced. However, gaming, virtual worlds, Facebook and Twitter I've rejected. It may be a function of my age, but I find that now I have more time I'm simplifying my life and pro-actively choosing or rejecting every "next" thing that comes along. I find that if you don't do this then there's a danger that your life becomes like a shattered mirror - your view of the bigger picture is distorted and you lose the essential clarity that is necessary for navigating your way through life.

And, as with life, so with photography. Sometimes you've got to reject the wide view that your camera offers, with all its disparate details, and home in on that which is elementary and interesting for itself: in other words you've got to simplify things. A few days ago I was standing on the banks of the River Great Ouse at King's Lynn alongside a couple of boats, with the river beyond, the blue sky above flecked with white and grey clouds, and a shore full of nautical apparatus - masts, metalwork superstructures, buoys, cables, etc. Looking about me I felt there must be a few images to extract from the location. There was, and the image I post above is the best I got. The tops of the buoys outlined against the sky, a small detail of the whole scene appealed to me for that elementary simplicity - a few basic colours, simple shapes, textures and shadows. As I processed the RAW image into a JPEG I noticed that slightly increasing the saturation and contrast gave it more of the three-dimensional quality that also attracted me when I took the shot, and so that is how I present it.

Thursday, November 05, 2009

click photo to enlargeAs a general rule I'm against the painting of pictures on exterior walls and brickwork. Why? Well, often the paintings are worthy rather than good, and are frequently a cheap substitute for doing something better with a location. Moreover, they rarely achieve their objective of giving the eye something better to look at, raising the spirits and improving the area: time and again I find the unadorned wall is preferable to what appears on it. Even when the painting has merit it starts to lose it when the paint begins to fade or flake off, water stains mar the image, and graffiti appears which mocks or disfigures it. All this makes paintings on walls look shabby. I'm quite even-handed in my dislike too. Whether it's "street graffiti" by Banksy, everyday graffiti by Anon, or a piece by a "community artist" commissioned by a public or private body, I'm against it if it's painted on a wall.

What I don't mind (and often like), however, is outdoor paintings on boarding, hoardings, or any temporary structure. The works that enliven the panels that are erected to screen building work, archaeological digs, etc, are, to me, absolutely fine, because they are not as permanent as wall paintings, and don't usually degenerate into eye-sores. I came across some interesting examples in King's Lynn recently. They were on boards over windows adorning an old building near the Customs House. There were several examples, and it looked like more than one artist had been involved (though in retrospect that seems unlikely). A couple didn't appeal to me, the others were quite acceptable, and this one I rather liked. I'm not a cat lover, so it wasn't the main subject that took my fancy, rather it was the general trompe l'oeil idea. A Victorian sash window with stained glass panels round the edge makes a good frame, and I'm a sucker for green and blue with red highlights. The appearance of a blind being down over the top window was a good touch, and the cats looking out invite passers-by to catch their eye and look at the painting, so that worked very nicely too.

When I photographed it I decided it needed something to break the symmetry. My shadow, though a photographic faux pas, seemed the ideal element, especially since it's also something that suggests rather than is, unreality. Today's photograph is a different take on the trompe l'oeil idea from the example in my October post.

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

click photo to enlargeOver the past few years I've tried on several occasions to photograph the church of St Laurence at Surfleet in Lincolnshire. This medieval building is known for miles around for its mainly fourteenth century tower that leans westward quite dramatically due to subsidence. However, it is one of those buildings that is hemmed in by trees on the side where the best photographs can be secured, a problem that is present in about a third of all churches if my experience is anything to go by!

So, this year I determined that I would photograph St Laurence (and a few other tree-bound churches) when the leaves had fallen. As I passed the building the other day the autumn winds seemed to have done most of their work, so I looked for my shot. The best composition I could find was from my favoured position at the south-east corner of the churchyard. At Surfleet this gave me a view with a tree trunk to the left and right with a veil of thin branches between, all of which acted as a "frame". Looking at the image on the computer I reflected that this was a very traditional composition, of the sort that might have been taken by a Victorian antiquarian with his plate camera. And that thought caused me to experiment with sepia tone and a bit of white vignetting. As I've mentioned before, I'm not a great believer in photographic "effects", but this one pleases me for its quite authentic old fashioned look, and so I thought I'd post it rather than my original colour photograph.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

click photo to enlargeIf you were to invent a "Forces of Nature Scale", somewhat analagous to the Beaufort Scale of wind speed, where 0 equals Calm and 12 equals Hurricane, with ever rising numbers and speed between, what would you place at 12? A volcano? An earthquake? A tsunami? It would probably be one of those, though if we extended the scale beyond 12 (as the Beaufort Scale has been in China and elsewhere to take account of tropical cyclones), then a meteor impact on earth would probably equate to the highest number.

In between would be blizzard, flood, lightning and various other manifestations of the power of nature. Somewhere near the bottom of the list would be clouds. These can, of course, bring precipitation, but often they just blank out the sun, or fill the sky with wonderful, fleeting shapes like an invasion of benign, diaphanous alien craft. A few days ago, as we walked in the vicinity of the Lincolnshire villages of Algarkirk and Sutterton, the bright, sunny afternoon gave way to the onset of evening rather quicker than might have been expected with the appearance of a bank of grey cloud. It rolled in across the flat Fenland landscape with a malevolent look in its eye. But it proved to be a sheep in wolf's clothing, and produced no rain to mar our enjoyment of a walk in the autumn countryside.

Monday, November 02, 2009

click photo to enlargeIs it just me or is there something quite worrying about family members (fathers and sons, husbands and wives, etc) achieving high political office in democracies? Am I right in thinking that where this does occur it is more likely to be due to "connections" and nepotism than the political attributes of the individuals concerned. And that even if these factors aren't at work the very fact that they look like they are should be enough to make those involved search elsewhere for employment.

During my lifetime it has happened in the United States with the Kennedys, the Bush family and the Clintons: there may be others but my knowledge of U.S. politics isn't so extensive. It happens in the U.K. too, though perhaps to a lesser extent than across the pond. We have husband and wife M.P.s and cabinet ministers who are descendants of cabinet ministers. Some would say that the fact that politicians are predominantly drawn from only a few areas of employment, from higher social classes, and from a limited number of academic institutions, is more of a problem. I would agree, but I nonetheless think that the family connections route to high political office is the way of dictatorships, and is a cheapening and corrupting influence on a modern democratic society.

I was reading recently about the aspirations of Jean Sarkozy which many say would be unrealistic were his father not the French president, and recall that Chelsea Clinton may have designs on a political future. To those who say that the sons and daughters of doctors, lawyers, accountants, teachers and plumbers often follow in their parents footsteps so why not politicians, I would remind them that those jobs require a demonstrable and examined level of competence, something that a career in politics can't claim!

I was thinking about offspring following in parents' footsteps the other day when I photographed a spider's web on my drive gates. Early morning fog had hung beads of dew on these delicate constructions, and as I made my images I noticed that some of them had two large drops at the centre. When I took a similar shot last year that web also had these two drops. Was this the work of descendants of last year's web architect? Is it a signature of a particular spider family? I have no idea! Perhaps someone with more knowledge than I have of spiders' webs can throw some light on this. Looking for something to distinguish this year's photograph from last year's I included some sunlit leaves which gave a yellow/green background rather than the green/blue/black of the earlier image.